SHOPPER'S SEARCH FOR ELMO DISCREET VENTURE

"This is Toys R Us. Your raincheck is in. You must claim it by Thursday."

The message was rather mysterious. The only thing I could remember putting on raincheck at Toys R Us several weeks ago was a Tickle Me Elmo.

I called back to check. A polite customer-service representative confirmed "the item" had arrived for raincheck customers only, but she was careful never to actually say the product name. I guess the mere mention could cause a store panic.

Later that night, I found myself speaking in a hushed voice at the raincheck counter. I was suddenly reminded of clandestine scenes in a James Bond thriller. Mystery. Intrigue. Tickle Me Elmos.

The staff verified my identity, my raincheck, and presented me with a number written on the back of a sales slip. I was to present it at the checkout. No sign of Elmo yet.

"How many did you get in?" I asked.

The staff was understandably secretive. "I think we have enough to satisfy most rainchecks," one store clerk said.

"How many rainchecks did you have?" After all, I'm a reporter. I'm paid to ask questions.

"Some dating back to November," she replied. I could see this was getting me nowhere. They were well-trained.

At the checkout line, I chatted nervously with the woman in front of me, also paying with her secret white slip. "Aren't you surprised they came in?" She looked at me suspiciously. I explained I was behind her at the customer-service counter.

"Do you think we need to buy batteries?" she asked.

"I don't know. I've never actually seen an Elmo in person," I admitted.

With a paid receipt, I returned to the customer-service counter and showed proof of the transaction. Employees went back to the stockroom, where the Elmos were kept under lock-and-key. Each one was brought out already bagged.

I wanted to open the bag and peek at this furry, red stuffed animal causing all the fuss. I looked around the store furtively and held my bag close.

I decided if frenzied people paid hundreds of dollars to buy this stuffed animal, they would surely mug me in the parking lot.

I was starting to become paranoid. Hopefully this $29.99 creature wasn't going to cost me years of therapy.

When I turned to leave the store, I paused. I could see parents quietly coming in, talking to the customer-service representatives, getting their white slips, heading to the checkout, and returning for "the item." This entire drama was quietly unfolding unbeknownst to the regular shoppers. It was rather impressive.

I ran to the car; after all, it was cold. I arrived home breathless. I should have just put him in the gift closet for Christmas Day, but I couldn't resist the temptation to share the news.

"A Tickle Me Elmo," my husband cried. "I got one!"

Wrong. It's a gift for our 1-year-old, I reminded him.

What was all the fuss? we wondered. He's cute all right. He giggles and vibrates. And he's pricey on the secondary market.

The thoughts of big bucks were fleeting. Elmo is wrapped up tight for a Christmas morning surprise.